


Late Night Blues

by Shoutandscreamy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depressing, Drinking, Gen, Mentioned Dirk Strider, Sadstuck, at least there's a cat, i only write angst, it's short, ouchie, suicide implied, there is only pain now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 16:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoutandscreamy/pseuds/Shoutandscreamy
Summary: Roxy did something she regretted with a burning passion. She doesn't want to face the next day knowing her grave mistake. Instead of coping, she comes up with not-so-better solution.





	Late Night Blues

**Author's Note:**

> It's disappointingly short.

        Despite everything, a cold numb high was never enough to edge off the pain you had been running from since you were young. Watching people be happy without you was the most painful thing you had ever learned to cope with. Well, "learned" was a bit of an understatement. A generous substitution of less pleasant words. As if it wasn't obvious enough with the empty bottles of alcohol littered around your apartment, and the constant flush in your cheeks and how you always managed to be warmer than most. Drinking was your quickest way to mask your emotions. Being drunk made it easier to lie to yourself and call it coping. Nobody approved of it, and you had refused to admit to the issue for most of your young years. You didn't think it was a big deal then. You were alone then. However, when you finally got some people in your life, and when you had to watch them slip out of your frail fingers, you noticed an increase in your intake. Your poor liver.   
  
        Your name is Roxan Lucinda Lalonde and you are an alcoholic.   
  
        Addict experts say admitting it out loud was the first step to helping yourself. So, you did. You told the only man you could trust that you were an alcoholic and he responded with "I know". The next step was to say that you want help. That part you are still pretty foggy about. You didn't want help. You didn't want people poking and pointing and telling you something you already knew. You didn't need them digging your pit of self-loathing any deeper. That's what starting the drinking in the first place. As far as you're concerned, alcohol is your best friend; and that's why your real best friend told you to hit the curb because you messed up.  
  
 _You picked your addiction over the first love of your fucking life._  
  
        You suppose that was a dick move. You didn't do it on purpose. You simply rejected his preaching and told him you could handle yourself when you so obviously couldn't. That's when he told you to pick, and you didn't say a word. Dirk, or alcohol? It shouldn't be a question. It should have never been a question, but you hesitated and that was your ultimate down fall.   
  
        You step into your apartment, closing the door as your keys clattered in your hand. You got to your kitchen and opened the cupboard of the holy grail. You picked it over him, so might as well put it to good use. A black cat greeted you, meowing softly, and rubbing against your leg. Mutie, you called her. Jasper died long ago. You still miss him.   
  
  
        You walk through your apartment to what you have bitterly dubbed your drinking corner. That's where most of your bottles pile up. Once in a blue moon you'll clean up but you never see a point if you're just going to keep coming back. You sit and open the bottle of scotch. With an inhale, you take a swig and lean back against the wall. A window is open above you. It shines dim moonlight into the room, creating a spotlight for your kitten as she walks up to you, her owner.   
  
        You question whether or not you fed her. You take another swig.   
  
  
        It was a problem. It  _is_  a problem. This is bad, and you know it. This is shameful, and yet, you do nothing to stop it. You would much rather sit and rot in your drinking corner with your starving cat then be out there, with the people you love, with  _him_. It's not as if you love him still. You gave up trying to win him over years ago when you realized you were forever trapped in the friendzone. You have only yourself to blame. You knew he was gay, but you developed feelings anyway. Pathetic. You moved on eventually, and you found other interests, interests you still use as eye candy. However, none of that means that Dirk isn't the most important person of your life.   
  
 _And you just let him slip away._  
  
        The bitter reality settles under your skin and you feel sick with yourself. You are disgusting. They say an addict's mind isn't straight. That no matter what you say or do to prove you are smart, and well put together, your mind will always have to feed the addiction. You didn't believe it until today; as you sit alone with a bottle of scotch clenched in your fist  _like the scum you are._  
  
        You start to cry. No, this wouldn't gain sympathy from those you hurt but you feel like you need to. With another drink from your escape, you let the salty, warm tears caress your cheeks, jaw, and neck as they slowly work their way down your face. Your noises come out choked and nothing less than distressed. Who were you going to go to? Who is going to be your safe place now that Dirk is gone? You know,  _you know,_ self pity is revolting. You never said anything about being more than the low life you let yourself become. You were sickened by yourself. The problem only made you want to drink more. It was an unforgiving cycle of alcoholism and hate. You drink, you get depressed, you drink some more, and you continue to get more depressed, so you drink. You know where this ends. Again, you're sick with the choice. Be alone or be alone and drink. One sounds more pleasing than the other and it wasn't the first. So, bottoms up.  
  
        You sob more after you're drunk and through about half the bottle. You feel awful, ugly, gross. You feel ashamed of yourself. You should be. You are  _a piece of shit_ _._ Slowly, you curl your legs up to your chest and hold them tightly. You're shaking. Your blonde hair falls into your face as you cry. You've cried so much, your head pounding with dehydration and you go for another drink. Your arm won't cooperate and you quickly become frustrated. You can't bring yourself you pound the rest. That would be suicide and the thought of Dirk finding you a week later, clutching a scotch bottle and rotting with bits of flesh missing (because of your poor hungry cat) makes you want to puke. Instead you scream and shout, slamming the bottle on the ground and causing the bottom to shatter. You suppose you can sleep on the floor since there's no way you're going to be able to avoid that, or stand up for that matter. You cry more into your knees, wetting and staining your leggings. 

        _You just want someone to unconditionally love you.  
_

_It could happen if you stopped letting important people down, but death seemed to be a closer goal that bullshit. If people were going to push you aside anyway, what's the point?  
_

_Nobody wants damaged goods.  
_

_You should just off yourself, get it over with.  
_

_And there was just enough glass right at your finger tips to do it._


End file.
